


You Make Me Better

by questionsleftunanswered



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to get his A-levels, stay in school, and make enough money to give himself a fair shot at becoming a doctor. Sherlock's only interest is John. Well, John and the student apparently trying to get him expelled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, and the plot is still being worked out. It is subject to change, though not largely.

John stood watching as the casket was lowered into the ground. He wasn’t crying and supposed that was a bad thing. He saw his father, the strong, silent man, with strong, silent tears rolling down his face. He saw his mother’s friends crying and loudly blowing their noses into handkerchiefs.

John didn’t cry, though.

The housewives told his father, “The poor dear is in shock. He must not know what is going on.”

His father would reply with a grunt and turn back to his old rugby friends.

They were wrong. John knew exactly what was happening. His mother was dead and he was never going to see her again. But that was okay because that meant his father would never hit her again. He would never hear his mother cry at night or threaten to leave and take John and Harry with her. That meant that John didn’t have to feel quite so helpless.

He hated the thought. He hated the car that had hit his mother’s. But he could accept it.

It wasn’t something a twelve year old should have to accept.

***

Over the next two years, John learned all the things that a man was not.

He learned that a man does not leave at noon to get a drink and return at closing time, sloshed and yelling at his young kids. He learned that a man does not waste every pound he has on alcohol. He learned that a man does not hit a woman.

But there was some good to come out of it. John learned what it meant to be an honourable person. He learned how to deflect his father’s rages so that his hands never touched Harry. He learned how to tell the police that his father wasn’t home with a face convincing enough that they wouldn’t want to enter. John learned that if he wanted to get anywhere, he was going to have to work damn hard for it.

So he did. John worked his arse off at school and rugby and for two years he was academically in the top ten of his class. Despite his stature, he was the top of the rugby team as well. John wanted to get into a good school. He had his mind set on a boarding school near Windsor: Bartholomew’s School for Boys. Bart’s was a secondary school with sixth form, though the buildings and grounds were well divided. It was not far from Eton. Bart’s wasn’t of the same merits, but it was a huge step up for John.

The hardest part was leaving Harry. John sat up many nights debating what would happen if he left her.

“You go to school and make something of yourself, Johnny,” Harry insisted.

“I don’t want to leave you here with him. Maybe I should stay. I could wait and go away for university,” John suggested half hoping that she would accept.

“I’ll be fine here on my own. Useless lump hardly ever notices that I’m here.”

It was a game they had always played. Their father knew John was there, but Harry was always safe because he never noticed her. It was a horrible thing to say, but it was John’s only way of giving his sister a sense of security if anything would ever happen to him.

So with Harry’s blessing, John submitted his application to the school. It was long ago that he learned the ugly curves of his father’s signature. No one would be able to tell John’s rendition from the real thing.

John’s notice of acceptance came in the mail. The bit that John feared the most was the tuition cost. He had money left form his mother – a fact gained by good password guessing and internet access – but it was nowhere near enough to cover even a year. It was a massive shock to his system when his acceptance came with a letter stating that he qualified to attend Bart’s for free maintaining that he keep his grades high and played rugby.

John only had Harry to tell. Their father was on his usual barstool at the pub and didn’t even know John had applied. He kept it from the few friends he had out of fear of rejection. 

So John Watson gathered what money he could and packed himself up.

***

From Year 9 to Year 11, nothing remarkable happened to John while at Bart’s. He kept his head down and his grades up. He worked himself through rugby practice and never complained. From day one John’s captains knew he was going to run harder than all the other boys, even the ones larger than him. They knew he wanted to be there the most, and they knew that they better damn well keep him.

During those three years, John changed. He was no longer the short kid with the drunken father who showed up to school with a dirty shirt. He went from a fourteen year old who didn’t know a thing to sixteen and able to work hard and do well.

John got a job with the school hauling equipment and helping Craig, the janitor, with whatever he needed. It wasn’t much, but that was all the money John had. Every pound he made went into his account in an effort to save up money for something. He didn’t know what it was yet.

His father died in the middle of his tenth year. John didn’t go home for the funeral, despite the school councillor’s concerns. Harry was moved to stay with his aunt. She left John at Bart’s. The only improvement was that he now received Christmas presents.

John always stayed at school in the summer. At the close of his eleventh year, there was a particular reason. The captain of the rugby team had just graduated and they were out for a new one. As a Sixth Form student, John was eligible for the position. He wanted it. Badly.

So John spent every day either working or practicing. The first month of his summer went like that.

Then someone showed up and threw a wrench in his plans.


	2. Chapter One

“Keep your stupid comments to yourself, Mycroft. I’m standing before the disgustingly grotesque front gate and it’s a whole two sodding months before the start of term. Just as your perfectly stuffed face planned,” Sherlock said all in one breath, “So please do me the immense honour of fucking off.”

Sherlock shut the phone and snatched his laptop bag away from the driver as though the man would break it simply by proximity.

He began the long march up to the front door of the first building, seething the entire way. To his distant left, Sherlock could see the rugby fields. And on one, a solitary person running back and forth in increasing increments of length. The figure stopped and bent double. After a moment, a hand was raised as though in surrender.

Sherlock assumed it was not for him, and therefore kept walking. This turned out to be a mistake. Being ignored just prompted the figure to resume sprinting, but towards Sherlock.

Stopping, Sherlock simply waited for the running figure to catch up. As he drew Sherlock could tell all number of things about him. Not terribly tall, but strongly built. As evidenced by the muscles that were clearly defined and the pace of physical activity Sherlock had just witnessed.

“You lost, mate?” the stranger asked with a pleasing enough smile on his face. Everything about him said working class. _Scholarship, then._ This student, for Sherlock could tell he was a student, looked eager to help and ready to assist Sherlock if he was able. It was disgusting.

“I know my way around perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied, not even bothering to pull the distain from his voice.

The other man’s face fell a bit and he took a step back. “Sorry, do you not like sweat?” he asked as though it was the state of his skin that put Sherlock off and not the mere fact that he was breathing Sherlock’s air.

“As a matter of fact, no.”

Another step back was put between them.

“I’m John Watson,” the stranger said. He moved as though he was going to extend his hand. John thought better of it and just gave a courteous nod.

“Sherlock Holmes.” _He learns fast_ , Sherlock thought.

“Good to meet you. Are you looking for something in particular? You know term doesn’t start for another two months, yes?”

“I am well aware of when the term starts, Mr Watson. Now I must be getting on.” Sherlock tried to push ahead of John on the path, but the persistent arse kept up.

“Are you going to need any help moving in? I know my way around here pretty well. This is your first year I’m assuming?” John still looked eager to help.

“Yes, my first year.”

“How old are you then? Where are you getting to?”

“I am very nearly 16. My birthday is in January,” Sherlock said. _Now why in the hell did I tell him that?_ he wondered.

“Well, you’re going to be in the Secondary School dorms,” John headed off down a fork in the path towards a no doubt unkempt cluster of buildings.

“Wrong.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re wrong. I will not be in Secondary School housing. I will be housed in the Sixth Form dormitories.”

“But you’re 15?”

“As of right now. I will be 16 very soon and happened to have excelled in school.”

“Enough to skip grades?”

“Yes, now if you will kindly leave me to finding my housing arrangements, you can get back to running in circles.”

“Alright. Well, if you need something, I’m one of the few students who stay on campus all year, so I’m fairly good and getting around and such.” John nodded once and ran back off to the rugby field.

Sherlock slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and pointedly did not watch as John jogged back to his previous position on the field.

He carried on up the path and pushed open the wooden door. Sherlock instantly recognised the foyer. It looked the exact same as it had when Mycroft first stepped through the doors. His proud day displayed prominently in the Holmes’s tea room.

Sherlock made his way down the hall to where he knew the administrative office was. His driver stood in the front of the building, waiting for Sherlock to come back and bully him more. The large black bags that contained Sherlock’s possessions were waiting next to him.

“Can I help you, dearie?” asked a receptionist. She was wearing far too much perfume and far too much make-up and Sherlock took an immediate disliking to her.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am here for my room assignment.”

“Right! I didn’t expect any new students here so early. Where’s your mum so I can get a signature on this?”

Sherlock raised his chin. “I feel like you misheard me. I am a Holmes. No signature will be required on my assignment. My room is on the second floor of the Sixth Form dormitories and is number 221. It is the only single person room on the floor. I would like my key now so I may get in, though if you would prefer to give me practice in lock picking that can also be arranged.”

The woman practically threw the key at Sherlock and was ready to throw him out of her office. But there was no need. As soon as Sherlock’s fist closed around the key, he turned on his heel and was gone.

Exiting, he waved for the driver to follow and bring his luggage.

***

John was running his suicide sprints again, trying to focus on the burning in his calves and hamstrings and lungs rather than the tall skinny kid who needed more help than he was willing to admit.

After his run, John showered and stopped in to the administrative office. Tilly was faithfully behind her desk, albeit painting her nails.

“Hullo,” John greeted. He had always liked Tilly, even if she was a bit mad.

“John! How good to see you. You never stop in to see me anymore. It’s indecent of you,” Tilly smiled.

“You know me; I’m always busy painting the walls.”

“Whatcha need today?”

“There was a new student in today? He had a really weird name. Can you tell me his room number?”

“Sherlock! Oh god, that boy. Rude as can be and acted like he was the Duke of York. What a prat. Why are you looking to talk to a sour guy like that?” Tilly wrinkled her nose as if the mere mention of Sherlock put a bad taste in her mouth.

“He’s new. I want to make sure he can get around.”

“Oh he can get around alright. He’s one of the Holmes boys.”

“Holmes?”

“You know the richie rich family that sends all their boys here? I’m surprised this is his first year. They normally put them in right at year seven.”

“I did not know this family. How many of them have gone here?”

“Oh, dozens. Some of them were nice, you know, still a bit odd but nice enough. He’s horrible. At least he doesn’t give you a shivery feeling like his brother. You know it was the first year I was working here, and normally we give room assignments by your last name. Handing out boys’ keys at the crack of dawn and I was just at the B’s when this short kid pushes his way to the front and demands his room key so he could go. Told me his name and I tried to send him down with the rest of the H boys, but he was having none of it. Said he was a Holmes. All of a sudden the president of the school is there and telling me to help him out any way I can. And do you know what the worst thing about it was?”

“Not even a clue.”

“That little boy looked at me like he knew all my darkest secrets, and was trigger happy about it to boot.”

John took all this information in without comment and wondered if that was what Sherlock was going to be.

“Are you going to tell me Sherlock’s room or not, Tilly?”

“Alright, alrighty. Keep it all together. The kid has a special room. 221. It’s supposed to be for two students, but the Holmes’s sort of own it in an unofficial way and make sure it is only ever fitted for one.”

“Thanks, Tilly!” John said and walked back out.

John didn’t like to be nosy in other people’s business. He supposed that it just came from not wanting people to be nosy into his. It was with that thought that John stood outside 221 and didn’t knock. _What if this Sherlock was just a loner and didn’t want people prying into his business?_ It seemed like a decent enough explanation for the gruffness with which he greeted John and then extended towards Tilly.

John’s loneliness got the better of him. Three months with no friends was an awfully long time, and John was curious about the newcomer, if only for selfish reasons.

He knocked on the door and received no response. He tried again.

“What could you possibly want? I just bloody got here. Can you give me at least one day of peace before badgering me about sheets and bathroom rules and such shi-” the door swung open and the rant suddenly cut off.

Sherlock stood looking down at John, a nasty scowl pulled across his face.

“I’m John, we met earlier?” John tried.

“Yes, yes. I know. I thought you here housekeeping or the bloody president or something.”

“We don’t have housekeeping. And why would the president of the school be personally coming to see you?”

“Wrong. You don’t have housekeeping. I however am apparently provided such luxuries. And the president would come to see me for no other reason than to be an insufferable annoyance and try to offer me something stupid like to have lunch with him.”

“Why the hell do you get a housekeeper? And lunch?” John was keeping up, but only just.

“Must you ask such obvious questions? Is everyone here going to be as dull and obvious as you, or are you just a special breed of useless that even your alcoholic father doesn’t want you to come home.”

Sherlock’s sneer was quickly wiped away with a look a shock. John felt a knuckle crack as his fist connected with one of Sherlock’s frankly ridiculous cheekbones.

Sherlock looked stunned for another moment before he grinned broadly, wincing a bit with the movement.

“Ah. So not entirely dull after all,” Sherlock said.

“You’re a ruddy arsehole you know that? I came here to ask you if you wanted someone to walk you around campus. Rich little shit like you clearly doesn’t need my help, and all you want to do is insult me. Fine, have it your way.”

John turned and stormed down the hallway. He wrenched the door to his own room open and flopped down on the bed. He tried to slow his breathing, calming down with each exhale.

Then there was a knock on his door and it all went up in flames again.

“What the hell do you want?” John demanded from Sherlock.

“I feel as though my words may have touched a nerve.”

“ _May_ have touched a nerve? What the hell are you on about? Bugger off to your single room. Let me seethe in peace.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. I will not, as you so eloquently put it, bugger off back to my room.”

Sherlock had one hand braced on John’s door and a foot already stepped inside the room. He was a full head taller, despite his youth, and a splattering of bruising was beginning to form on his cheek.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I really just want to take a nap. I’m pretty tired from the run.”

“Liar. A second ago you were ready to show me around campus. Now all you want is to take a nap?”

“Yes.” John kept his face clear and tried again to close the door. “Good-bye.”

***

John spent the next few weeks doing the same thing that he had always done. Running, going to get food, helping when he can, and putting all extra money in the bank.

For the first few days, John didn’t notice that he had acquired a shadow. It wasn’t until he heard a smack and cuss in the locker room that John was aware of another person in there.

“Hello?” John called out.

Silence.

“Hello?” he tried again.

There was another beat before a confident, “This entire room is disgusting I don’t know how you manage to remove your clothing in here much less attempt to bathe.”

“Sherlock?” John asked. He poked his head around the wall while trying to turn off the water and grab a towel.

“Yes. Who else would it be?”

Sherlock was standing beside the bench, looking like he wanted to be everywhere except there. He had pristine white sleeves rolled up to his elbows and clearly designer jeans carefully not dragging on the floor or touching anything.

John pulled the towel around himself and gave the out-of-place man a once over.

“You don’t look like you belong here. I bet those jeans were worth more than all the money in my bank account.”

“Undoubtedly.”

John smiled and grabbed a second towel. He began drying his hair and Sherlock was glad for the momentary blindness. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes from wandering down the finely toned muscles of John’s chest and the teasing V that was dusted with fine blonde hairs trailing down beneath the line of the towel.

“So why are you in here?”

“You didn’t correct me.”

“What?”

“When I insulted you the first time we met. I said your father was an alcoholic. You didn’t correct me. Was I right?”

John lowered the towel and let it hang about his neck. “Yeah, yeah you were right.”

“Why did you punch me?”

“Because it was insulting.” John looked incredulous, how could Sherlock not understand that?

“What about it was particularly insulting? I was merely stating fact. Your father is an alcoholic.”

“Not that part, the bit about me being useless that he didn’t want me home. That was insulting.” John was looking at Sherlock curiously. “Do you really not understand that?”

“My intent was to insult, but it has never produced such a reaction directly.”

“You’re never been punched in the face?” John asked, his eyes drawn again to where the now faded bruise was.

“I have, but not immediately. I am generally beaten up later that night or at another point in the week.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Not since you hit me. Before that, it was frequent, to say the least.”

John only nodded. He wasn’t sure if it was a sore subject for Sherlock. He continued to dry himself off and wondered a bit more about this odd new student.

“Why are you in Sixth Form but only 15?” John asked.

“I will be 16 soon. I skipped a grade. You are seventeen, but you’ve only recently turned. A spring birthday. April?”

“Close, last day in March,” John said with a grin.

That made Sherlock smile, and John was happy for it.

“You always take your dinner and sit in your room. Having seen your room, I know that there is no space in there to properly live, much less sit and eat. I, however, have a table and chairs and adequate room for myself and another person. Should you find that you are needing more space, of course.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” John asked and winked when Sherlock looked up in surprise.

“Would you accept?” Sherlock challenged.

That made John laugh, a large noise that seemed to fill the empty space. Sherlock liked it, and found himself quietly laughing in return.

“If you insist,” John said, still wearing a cheeky grin. “I don’t have to get dressed up and try to impress your mum though do I?”

“Not at all. The woman is difficult to impress anyway. You don’t want to even begin to try.”

John was still smiling after he was properly dressed and back in his room. He grabbed a book and sat on a corner of his lumpy bed. The sun set and John realised that it was about time he got to Sherlock’s room for dinner.

He walked down the hallway and found the door cracked open already. A soft lull of violin music teased its way out of the opening. John stood, listening to the notes that were expertly pulled out of the instrument.

As the last echoes faded away, John heard a slightly cocky, “Are you going to stand out there all night or do you plan to come inside?”

John pushed open the door. Sherlock wasn’t joking when he said he had room. The space was a bit bigger than John’s two person room, made to look even larger by the lack of a second bed. In place of it was a long wooden table, longer than the bed would have been. On one half of the table was a microscope a case of Erlenmeyer flasks, graduated cylinders, and an impressive rack three levels high of test tubes containing god knows what.

Beside the table on that side, mounted to the wall, was a sort of shelf. It had ten rows of slots each five spaces across. It was clear that they were the perfect dimensions of a standard slide. The first four racks had been filled already. Each carefully labelled underneath with contents and date.

At the other half of the table were two chairs. A plate of food was waiting at each seat.

“Bit of a mess don’t you think?” John observed. “Where am I going to sit then?”

Sherlock put his violin away in the case and then moved to grab the stack of textbooks that was occupying one of the chairs.

“I am still moving in,” Sherlock explained.

“Moving in? It’s the last week in July, Sherlock. You got here on the first. It doesn’t take a bloke that long to move his stuff in.”

“I was getting organized.”

“Like hell,” John was grinning, his teasing tone only partially reaching Sherlock. He redirected his attention to the food sitting on the table. “How did you get pasta with meatballs? There isn’t pasta being made today.”

“Not for the ten students who always stay in the summer, no. For me, yes.”

“You really need to cut back on all of these special allowances, Sherlock. I’m not sure what your family did to buy you all of that, but some of the other boys might not take kindly to it.”

Sherlock took the other seat and sat picking at his food. “What do you mean?”

“There are really only two kinds of guys who are sixth form here. There are the rich boys like you who come from old money are sound like you grew up in the court of Her Majesty, and then there are guys like me. Working class and here on scholarship only.”

“Why should it matter?”

“Well it doesn’t, not really anyways. I don’t care where you’re coming from. There are just some people who have a bit of a problem with people being different. When everyone else gets here you’ll see it. There’s a whole area where only people playing league sports sit. Next to them is where all the regular, general people sit, the ones who are sort of in the middle or too involved to really be in just one group. All the very posh boys sit together. The athletic scholarship boys are normally scattered through the league tables. That’s where you’ll find those who are here on scholarship. Just because it is bloody hard to get in, much less on academic scholarship.”

“I have an academic scholarship,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. He was slowly chewing his pasta as though swallowing too fast would guarantee his choking.

 John shook his head. “Of course you do. The last person who needs the money gets here on an academic scholarship.”

“I’m highly intelligent.”

“I’m sure you are, Sherlock.”

“Rugby.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Sherlock said with a heavy sigh of exasperation, “You’re here on a full scholarship for rugby. You’re going to be the captain.”

“I’m hoping.”

“You’re going to be the captain.”

They spent the rest of the night eating with amicable chatter. John was glad for another person to talk to. It was true that ten students stayed all year, himself being one of them. Two of the others were from Australia, four from America, one from China, and the last two no one was really sure about.

No one really knew much at all about them. John only knew their names. The shorter of the two was Irish and the tall, thick, blonde guy who followed him around didn’t speak enough for John to tell where he was from.

John finished his food and leaned back, feeling very full. Sherlock’s plate was still mostly covered in food.

“No wonder you’re so skinny, you barely eat!” John said.

Sherlock merely shot him a look and stuffed a large mouthful in his face as if to prove a point.

It was true, though. Sherlock was skinny. Terribly so. He looked unhealthy to a worrying degree. John wouldn’t say it, but he didn’t like seeing Sherlock’s ribs through the startling white of his button down shirt. Sleeves still rolled to his elbows, John could see the blue veins in Sherlock’s arms.

“I’ll be off then. Thanks for dinner, mate. It’s good to have some decent food. There’s this small town, well not really a town, more like a village. Anyways, it has a little ice cream shop. I’ll treat you some day.” John stood to leave and Sherlock opened the door. John didn’t try and hide his grin at the image of Sherlock’s mother trying to impress some basic manners onto her son.

***

The last week of July rolled through and it quickly became the first week of August. John was still running every morning and putting money away. There was a shift in his routine though.

After getting paid, John went to the little village not a half mile from the gates of the school. He guessed that about 300 people lived there. It was always the same working in the shops. He would deposit his checks and thank the people working.

John would walk back to school and see if there was any other work for him that day. He would shoot the breeze with Tilly or sort through some books the librarian, Mrs Hudson, left sitting around for him to find. She always had the latest medical journals saved for John’s eyes first.  Mrs Hudson was the only one John had ever even told about his hope to one day be a trauma surgeon.

After all of that, John had time to himself. He would read or surf the internet. The majority of his activities were solitary ones, having never had someone to share the time with. It was what sparked the creation of John’s blog. He had started it the first year he was alone for a summer in an effort to connect with the outside world. It had evolved since then to something more.

Not many people read it, only about 100 total. It was more than he ever anticipated, anyway. The only person John regularly talked to was a girl named Sally Donovan. She lived in London and apparently hated everything about her life. She kept telling John about running away and solving mysteries.

Now, though, John had Sherlock. What was once time reading alone became time reading with Sherlock. John sat at the table and Sherlock commandeered the full bed (versus the twin bed everyone else was saddled with).

Sitting alone in the library flipping through a medical journal became talking to Sherlock about human anatomy and in turn listening to the subtle defining characteristics of tobacco ash. Blogging online became typing up stories that contained “Sherlock said” at least once.

People were starting to notice. And comment. A lot. Sally had asked three times when John came out as gay and how he managed to get a boyfriend and why didn’t he tell her this sooner. John was deflecting her questions with “I’m bisexual, you know that” and “He’s not my boyfriend” and “I didn’t tell you because it’s not true.”

John shut his laptop after reading another message from Sally telling him all the reasons he was clearly in denial about the nature of his relationship with Sherlock.

John got up and wandered down the hallway from 211 to 221. He knocked on Sherlock’s door on the off chance that the messy mop was even awake that this hour. Sherlock had a bad habit of staying up for days and then just crashing and sleeping for about 18 hours. On one occasion, he showed up at John’s door claiming to be “too tired to make it the rest of the way” before promptly collapsing on John’s bed.

Trying to move him was like trying to lift a dead body, and John was having none of that. He ended up sleeping on the other bed in his room without sheets or even a proper mattress cover. That night, John had learned some invaluable things about Sherlock.

The first was that Sherlock talked in his sleep. It wasn’t just the low murmuring of someone struggling to vocalise. It was crisp and clear and nearly as articulate as the conscious, awake Sherlock. The second was that Sherlock moved about in his sleep. Not rolling about a bit, but real restless movement; tossing from one side to the next, then onto his back or stomach, then with one leg crossed over the other, then with an arm over his face, repeat.

John watched all of this with rapt attention for two hours. He was trying to read, Sherlock completely unaffected by the light in the room.

After the second hour of non-stop movement, John asked, “Sherlock are you actually awake and trying to get comfortable?”

“I’m nothing if not intelligent,” Sherlock said with a slight slurring.

John got up to poke at the mass of angles and was nearly slapped for his troubles.

“Are you sleeping or being an arse? Your room is just down the hall and I guarantee your bed is more comfortable than mine.”

“I have nothing that you could possibly want.”

John crouched down so that his face was level with Sherlock’s. He raised one finger beneath Sherlock’s nose to feel for breathing. It was a test he had often performed on his father. John never wanted to touch the man when he collapsed in a stupor, but it was important that he not die or have a heart attack or some equally life-threatening thing happen.

John could feel Sherlock’s breath. It came out in even measures and intervals. So Sherlock was asleep then. John had never seen someone sleep so actively. Though he didn’t really expect otherwise from someone so active during waking hours.

This time, however, Sherlock had managed to make it to his own room. After John had knocked, he pushed the door a bit and it nudged open. Idiot never bothered to lock it anymore. Sherlock lay sprawled across his full bed snoring lightly and, miraculously, not moving.

John backed out and pulled the door shut behind him. He had a backlog of _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_ to watch anyway.

***

John and Sherlock were walking down by the pond on Bart’s grounds. It was warm outside and John knew he was going to miss shorts weather. Sherlock, however, was clad in different, but similar, designer jeans and a button down shirt.

“Why do you always wear that sort of outfit?” John asked out of genuine curiosity.

“Does it bother you what I wear?”

“Not particularly, I’ve just never seen you wear shorts or anything comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable right now.”

“You know what I mean, loose clothes. Clothes you don’t mind getting dirty in.”

“Did you have plans for our walk to end up with a mud fight?”

“No.”

“Then I see no reason for me to wear clothing that would befit such an activity.”

John just shook his head. He took his sunglasses off for a moment to wipe a bit of sweat off of his forehead. Sherlock looked over at him through Ray Ban aviators with mild interest. 

“You’re going to like it here when people besides me actually show up,” John said. He was looking around the field that bordered the pond, picturing it covered in boys with backpacks and laptops. Some cramming for a test, others kicking a football around or playing catch. “This whole place really livens up.”

“I don’t want it to liven up,” Sherlock said following John’s gaze. He knew what John saw in it. All the typical things that a boys’ school had to offer: camaraderie, sports talk, amicable gruffness, etc. Sherlock knew that this was an area where John excelled far beyond where Sherlock even hoped to reach.

His emotional barometer had been getting better, though. He could tell when John was irritable after a short sleep or message from his sister. He could tell when John was in a good mood because of a positive comment on his blog or a particularly good bit in his book. Sherlock could then adjust his responses accordingly.

John was beginning to do the same with Sherlock’s moods. He noticed when Sherlock had a breakthrough in an experiment and learned the particular features that crossed Sherlock’s face whenever a new delivery of god knows what arrived at the school gates. John was also familiar with the black mood that followed any mention of Mycroft or message from said brother.

They had quickly learned to move in sync. On this particular day, John had run, showered, gone to the bank, and he and Sherlock decided to walk along the lake.

John tried to not notice the way the sun made Sherlock’s pale skin a bit pink. He tried to ignore the sideways smiled that curved on Sherlock’s lips whenever the other man noticed John looking.

They wandered the perimeter of the lake and Sherlock told John about the colour of the water and the salinity and went far more in-depth into the water cycle than John needed. John in turn told Sherlock of human anatomy and the body’s reaction to various aquatic stimuli.

“What are you here for then? A levels?” John asked. He could tell just from looking at Sherlock that he was brilliant and would be doing A levels.

“Physical Chemistry, General Biology, Forensic Pathology, and Genetics.”

“Blimey. You managed to pick some of the hardest classes.” John said looking impressed.

“And you’re doing the typical four classes that will set your on track to be a doctor, potentially for the military, but you’ve yet to actually decide.”

“How the hell did you know that?” John asked.

“Irrelevant.”

“Well yeah, you’re right.”

“So Human Anatomy, Microbiology, Human Biology, Organic Chemistry then?”

“Spot on, actually. That’s genius.”

“No, it’s obvious.”

John grinned and nodded in a way that Sherlock suspected was slightly condescending. He let it go.

“I’m going to miss our dinners, you know,” John ventured.

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock asked, “Oh. No, you’re going to stop taking meals with me in my room when students come back. You sit with the rest of the rugby team and indulge in their stupid antics during dinner.”

“Oi, not stupid. They’re my mates, Sherlock.”

“Really? Would I be welcome to sit with you, then?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John said hesitantly, “I think that it might not be a great idea. I mean there are a lot of tables in there and students tend to keep them…uhm…divided.”

“But we are friends, yes? This that we have done is characteristic of friendship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spending time together, eating meals together, walking,” Sherlock gestured with his hands at the lake and school as he talked.

“Yeah, we’re friends. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because you are uncomfortable with me sitting with your rugby mates. Why would a friend then attempt to separate me from others?”

John tried to stammer out a plausible reply, but he couldn’t produce anything that sounded valid.

“You’re right,” John conceded, “I should introduce you to them. But they’re not all friendly. Some of them don’t take to people who aren’t in their circle. I mean, I wouldn’t let one of them actually hurt you, though.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From who?” John was surprised at how angry that made him. How could a supposed friend of Sherlock then allow others to harm him?

“No one you know.” Sherlock saw the stiffing of John’s shoulders, as though ready to absorb an impact.

“I want to hear it, though.” In physical defiance, John stopped walking and promptly sat down.

Sherlock stood over him, exasperated. “You can’t possibly think that sitting down is going to encourage me to tell you.”

“We’ll see,” John said with a smug smile.

Sherlock stood staring and pointedly did not sit next to John.

“His name is Victor. Can we please carry on with our walk now? It is getting hot and I am feeling a nap.”

“A nap? Bollocks. You never sleep unless you’re entirely burned out.”

“Well I’m feeling burned out,” Sherlock snapped.

John stood, reluctantly, and continued walking. They kept the silence until they reached the front door to the dormitory. John grabbed Sherlock’s forearm before the taller boy walked in.

“Sherlock wait a moment,” John said, “I just…if you were in an abusive relationship you can tell me. I don’t want – I mean I would never do that to you to let anyone do that to you. Hit you, I mean. Or hurt you.”

“I appreciate the intention, John but I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know you are. It’s just something I wanted to say.”

Sherlock nodded and John released his thin arm. They had dinner like usual though, both of them more aware of the dawning end to their nightly routine.

***

It was the last week in August and John knew that bright and early on the morning of the first of September would bring throngs of people to the currently deserted campus. New boys looking around and trying to seem as impressive as possible to their new classmates. Old boys greeting one another, ready to tell (lightly) embellished tales of their summer.

John was looking forward to it. It sure beat where he was.

Sherlock had dragged John out of bed at dawn and announced that there was only one week left before animals descended upon the school.

“I have an experiment that needs finishing before they get here to mess everything up.”

“What sort of experiment? It’s not going to be the same as last week’s is it?”

“I don’t have the time to go through the trouble to get another frog.”

“You’d still have the last one if you didn’t rip out its insides to make slides out of.”

“I needed to see their rate of decomposition. Hardly something that I can do without something to actually decompose.” Sherlock’s condescension was palpable.

John rolled over in his bed to give Sherlock his back. _Maybe if I don’t look at him, he’ll just go away_ , John thought.

That idea lasted the span it took to think before Sherlock reached over, grabbed John by his shoulder and hip, and forcefully pulled him back to see his face.

“I am not a child to be dismissed so easily,” Sherlock complained, sounding very much like a child.

John smiled into his pillow and raised one arm to pat at Sherlock’s cheek. “Why don’t you let me go back to sleep and in about three hours I’ll do whatever you need for the experiment.”

“No, you must get up and help me now.”

“Why?”

“Because I need your key to the janitor’s closet. Or I could just take it. No, just give me it. I’ll make myself a copy.”

That got john out of bed. “What do you need from the closet?”

“Bleach.”

“Why?”

“Reasons beyond your understanding.”

“If you don’t tell me why you need it, I’m not going to give you my key.” Despite his words, John was getting up and digging through his coat pocket.

“I need to bleach the frog skin.”

John withdrew the key and handed it over. “You are not allowed to make a copy, but you can go get a bit of bleach. Only a quarter gallon, Sherlock. Not more!”

John crawled back into bed, welcoming the warmth that lingered in the sheets.

“I didn’t know you slept in a t-shirt and pants,” Sherlock observed. Then he turned and dashed out of the room, clinging tight to John’s keys.

John just pulled the covers back up to his head and went to sleep. Three hours later, at a more decent hour, John opened his eyes.

Sherlock was squatting besides the bed eyes locked intently on John’s face.

John smiled at the ridiculousness of the situation, unable to imagine any other person greeting him in such a way.

“Can I help you?” John asked, sleep roughening his voice. It sent a thrill up Sherlock’s spine and he filed that away for analysis at another time.

“I was observing,” Sherlock said as though watching his best friend sleep was the most natural thing in the world. _Best friend_ , Sherlock thought. Since when had John gone form merely a friend to the best of them all? Well, not having had a friend previously made John both the best and worse by default. That was sorted away with the spine tingling.

“Why were you observing me sleeping?” John’s voice remained rough around the edges, something that Sherlock wanted to keep in his immediate memory for as long as possible.

John stretched, arching his back off of the bed and emitting a stressed groan of someone who had a fitful slumber. Sherlock couldn’t help the glance towards the horizontal cut of revealed skin that peeked out from under John’s pulled t-shirt. His skin was tanned from running shirtless and there was a highly defined stripe of white at the bottom that marked where his shorts generally sat while John ran. It ended with the grey elastic band on John’s pants.

“Sherlock why are you staring at my crotch?” John asked with a wink too fast for the average person, but just slow enough for Sherlock.

“I wasn’t. There is a bit of unravelling at the bottom seam of your t-shirt and I was noting the deplorable quality of clothing that you own.”

John gave a disgusted sound and said, “Not all of us can afford Armani and Spencer Hart.”

“It’s not my fault that I enjoy the finer things in life.”

“Posh prat.” But John was smiling, relaxed against the pillows. Sherlock decided that he wanted to see John relaxed every morning.

John’s eyes were lazily drooping again and Sherlock sat still, curious as to whether John would really be going back to sleep.

“I’m not drifting off again,” John said. His eyes were fully closed.

Sherlock didn’t answer, talking would violate the parameters of this one-subject experiment.

“Are you waiting for me to fall asleep?” John knew the answer; he could feel the pale eyes on his even through closed lids.

As Sherlock sat silent watching John, he brought back the feeling in his spine and the rough pulls that shaped John’s first words of the day. He liked the sound and the feeling. Is that what attraction was? It was different from purely physical attraction. When the summer had first started, he had met Sebastian Wilkes.

Seb didn’t give him the same feelings that looking at John did. Sherlock bore no friendship or affection towards him. Only lust characteristic of all teenage males in puberty.

John was his best friend and also becoming an object of this lust. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with that.

***

John and Sherlock wasted the rest of the week away. Sherlock’s dissolving skin experiment was brought to an abrupt end when it was accidentally knocked over onto John’s black V-neck t-shirt. Minutes later, the bleach spots began to shine through and the shirt was deemed a lost cause. Sherlock declared the experiment inconclusive because out outside interference.

“Outside interference my arse,” John said.

He insisted that Sherlock purchase him a new shirt. Sherlock opened his computer, went online and hid the screen from John, and then informed him that he would be receiving a new shirt within the week.

“Of a markedly better material as well,” Sherlock snobbishly informed a still bleach speckled John.

“If you spent more than ten pounds on a t-shirt you’re mental.”

Sherlock had in fact spent more than ten pounds on it. Quite a lot more. Just to show John that finer materials were well worth the cost, Sherlock had purchased a £132 black Armani t-shirt; reduced from the original £220. John didn’t need to know the pricing, it would skew his opinion and therefore violate the point of Sherlock’s experiment. Just in case, Sherlock deleted the record of purchase off of the browser history. He set the laptop aside and looked smug.

“You bought me a bloody Armani t-shirt didn’t you?” John asked looking like he was going to ring Sherlock’s neck if the answer was yes.

“No, I wouldn’t dream of spending that kind of money on clothing.” Sherlock had the decency to look offended. His acting skills would have gotten that answer past anyone except John.

“Liar. If you’re so opposed to spending money on clothing, how much did that button down cost you?” John jabbed a finger at the offending object, almost afraid to hear the answer. _Please let it be under 100 quid_ , John prayed.

“This is a classic cut white Dolce & Gabbana gold fit shirt,” Sherlock looked down at himself as though John had personally offended him.

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard,” John said laughing, “Go on. How much did you spend on it?”

“It was a present!” Sherlock protested loudly, “I’m not supposed to know how much it cost, correct? Isn’t that one of the little social observances that people are forced to give in relation to gift giving?”

“Yes it is and I’m terribly pleased that you know that. It shows that you have some level of understanding for social norms. But you being as you are, I’m sure know that exact cost of the shirt so spit it out. I’m trying to prove a point here and you’ve been nothing but a hindrance.”

“It was around 575 dollars.”

“Dollars? Like American dollars? And was it around or was it exactly?”

“Yes American dollars, John. Don’t act like you’ve never purchased something using an American penny. It was exactly 575 dollars.”

“I’ve used the occasional American penny if I’m buying sweets, but it’s not that often. It’s not like American money is just floating in circulation in Britain. Why did you use American money?”

“I was in America, moron.”

“Hey! I’m perfectly intelligent, thanks. So do you go to America often?” John was able to picture it clearly, actually. Sherlock’s family being well-off and all. He was willing to guess that Sherlock had been to New York City in America plenty of times and it wasn’t much of a stretch from going to New York City to buying a shirt that cost such an exorbitant amount of money.

“Once or twice. It is not something I like to make a habit of. They’re all far too communicative. Walk into a shop and suddenly someone is talking to you as though you’ve known them your whole life and they’re acting like vultures trying to get your money because they work on commission.”

“Sounds like Hell. Friendly, friendly hell.” John was grinning again, but it was different. It wasn’t the grin when Sherlock said something funny nor was it the bemused expression when John was too polite to be condescending. This was new. This was fascinatingly new.

Sherlock wanted more days like this. He wanted the rest of the students to never return. Sherlock wanted to hoard John Watson away in his room all to himself and never ever share John’s expressions or the blue of his eyes or the way his t-shirts showed a sliver of skin whenever he stretched. Sherlock didn’t want to give anyone else the sideways looks that John favoured or the way that John ate after a particularly good run. He didn’t want to let the other students know little things about John. He didn’t want them to find out that John wanted to be a doctor or that John had a sister named Harry and that his father was an alcoholic.

There were so many things about John that Sherlock thought of as belonging to him. If he could brand them with Property of Sherlock Holmes he would. He had never felt this towards another human being in his life, this fierce possessiveness that was doing nothing but overwhelming his mind and influencing his actions. Was this attraction? This desperate need to own another person?

Whatever it was, Sherlock dreaded the first of September. Because that day meant that everything about John that belonged to Sherlock, was suddenly going to belong to hundreds of other boys as well. And Sherlock never was terribly good at sharing.


	3. Chapter Two

Tilly hated September the first. She hated it for a number of reasons and every single one of them walked through her door bearing a suitcase and occasionally followed by irate parents. There were very few students that Tilly actually liked ­ John Watson being one of them, Jim Moriarty being another.

Tilly was an easily flattered person. Two or three compliments never went amiss when trying to get something from her. It was a trick that John and Jim had picked up on early in their time at Bartholomew’s School for Boys. The rest of the herd had yet to figure out the exact location of Tilly’s compliance switch.

As it was, she busily handed out keys and called, “Next!” in her loudest and clearest voice. The line shuffled forwards at a pace slow as death.

Once keys were obtained and parents were waved away, the boys would sit on the broad open lawn and catch up. Some of the new boys were already hauling their suitcases off to their rooms in order to find their roommate and a decent cuppa.  

Rita, the head cook, had cookies laid out in the massive lunch room. It was her own form of welcome to the new students, and heaven help any sixth formers who tried to take the little one’s cookies. Rita stood guard, spatula in hand, ready to swat at the fingers of smart arsed boys willing to take the risk. 

Sherlock stayed in his room the entire day. He could hear the horrible cacophony of voices that shoved their way down the hallway and into his unwilling ears. He had no interest in the onslaught of students nor did he find any joy in the fact that the school would soon be heavily populated by people considered his peers.

John, on the other hand, was outside, warmly greeting his rugby mates and excited about their confidence that he was to be captain this year. The vote, from what he could tell, seemed unanimous. It wouldn’t be official until the first practice, though.

John shook the hand of his roommate, Andy. Andy didn’t play rugby, but he was going to be in three out of four classes with John for the first year of sixth form. The pair had been roommates the previous year and all had gone well.

“Good to see you again, mate,” Andy said. He had hair somewhere between brown and ginger, a relatively pale complexion, and a spattering of freckles across his nose. When Andy smiled, it stretched his face out and girls either found it really cute or repulsive; there was no middle ground.

“How was your break?” John asked, “I got the pictures you sent of you and what’s-her-name at the beach. Do her parents really own that place in Milan?”

John had since gotten used to his friends having more than him and spending their summers in a world completely opposite his own. Andy was the best-off out of all of them. And Andy’s girlfriend even more so.

“Catherine, and yeah. First time meeting her old man. I think it went ok.” Andy seemed confident. It was rarely a good thing when Andy was confident in his social skills. All the money in the world couldn’t buy a chap tact.

Bill ran up to where Andy and John were standing; he had put on a few pounds since the last John had seen him. John didn’t want to comment, but he sincerely hoped that didn’t change the way Bill played.

“John! I hear you’re a shoe-in for captain this year. Well done,” Bill said with his regular boyish smile.

“Thanks. You’re playing, right? Hate to see you quit the first year I really get to run you properly,” John knew Bill hated to run. He loved everything else about rugby except the running bit.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re going to spend the year laying into me good, I can feel it already.” 

The rest of the team slowly trickled to their patch of grass and then as one unit they cut a path through to the dorms. Being on the rugby team or the football team was a bit of a big deal at Bart’s. They were the two most popular sports at the school and they were the two to get the most people at try-outs every year. With all of the competition, one had to be really damn good to make the team.

The school had cricket, golf, swimming, various running teams, and the usual run of the mill sports. None of them held a candle to the esteem of rugby or football, though.

While John’s friends were getting settled in, he went down to Sherlock’s room to see if there was any hope of getting him to emerge from the cave.

“Sherlock?” John called from behind the closed door.

“What do you want? Aren’t you terribly busy seeing your friend into their rooms?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t expect John to introduce any of his proper friends so why should he even bother with it all.

“I just wanted to see if you were planning on leaving your room?”

“No.”

“My roommate is here, Andy. Did you want to come and meet him?”

“Oh him I’m allowed to meet, am I?”

“Sherlock, don’t be like that,” John said. He leaned on the door frame and tried to think of a way to introduce Sherlock to the entire team without having Sherlock insult each and every one of them while simultaneously relinquishing being captain just because Sherlock couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“I have no interest in meeting this Andy.”

“Fine. I’m probably going to eat dinner downstairs with the team. You’ll still eat, right? Even though I’m not here to force feed you?” John was already well familiar with Sherlock’s eating habits and was worried that he would simply forget to eat until he starved.

“I am not a child, John. I will be perfectly capable of caring for myself tonight. Your concern is well meant but entirely wasted. Why don’t you go see your friends and make sure they are perfectly content with their miserable lives.”

John shook his head and knocked his forehead on the door. It was like trying to talk to a child who had missed his nap. John knew better than to try and argue when Sherlock was like this. So he simply said “ok” and walked back to his room.

Andy had a giant black suitcase sitting on his now haphazardly made bed. He was unloading clothes into his dresser and had Foster the People playing far too loud.

John turned the volume down on Andy’s stereo and flopped down on his own cramped and messily put together bed.

“So, how was summer staying here?” Andy asked. He was one of the few who knew about John’s history. He had originally offered for John to go home with him and take breaks and such with his family, but John had always politely refused. It felt too much like charity, even though he knew it was nothing close.

“It was alright. Ran a hell of a lot and made some money. Exactly like last summer, really.”

“I heard we got a Holmes in our class now?”

“Yeah, he moved in early in July.”

“You’ve met him? What’s he like? His family’s a fucking legend here. My dad was a few years behind his dad and all he had to say was that the Holmeses are brilliant and have money older than the Royal family.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” The shirt that Sherlock bought his was yet to be delivered, but John feared the cost like the end of the world. He would have to try and pay at least half of it, and he didn’t have whatever kind of money Sherlock seemed to.

“He’s got a weird name, our one. Shervin? Sherwin?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock! Yeah, that was it. My dad knows a little about his brother. Apparently Sherlock’s big brother is some sort of politician. Has a shitton of influence and contacts and stuff, but you’d never know his face if you saw it.”

Andy’s father was an MP and John had no doubt the validity of his words.

“I think I’m gonna take a nap before dinner. I’ve got first rugby practices tomorrow and hopefully I’ll make captain.”

“Yeah, I heard some of the guys talking about that. Looks like you’re pretty much guaranteed.”

“Crossing my fingers!”

***

John woke up early the next morning. There was a coiling in his muscles that he couldn’t quite shake. He was the first out on the field and began jogging the perimeter waiting for the rest of the team to show up.

Once everyone was assembled, albeit sleepily, Bill spoke up.

“Oi! You lot, we need to get a new captain. I say John.”

The rest of the team took up the voting and John tried to keep himself from getting too excited. The majority of the vote went to John, the rest divided amongst Bill and two other sixth form players.

John was beaming when he began thanking the team. “I’ll do my damndest to keep us on a winning season!”

John set up cones, threw a ball to Bill, and practice began. They ran drills before John stopped them to spend the rest of practice conditioning. Sherlock was seated in the bleachers, where he usually was while John ran in the mornings. His presence wasn’t lost on the rest of the team.

“Hey, John! “ Bill said during a water break, “Who is that bloke up in the stands? Is he waiting for try outs or something?”

“Nah, that’s Sherlock Holmes. Ever heard of him?” John poured water into the cup of his hand and rubbed it on his face, exhaling with relief at the coolness of it.

“Nope. Heard of the Holmeses, everyone has. Not him though.”

“Yeah, he’s in our year. Just got here early in July.”

“Why is he sitting there watching us practice if he isn’t trying out?”

“It’s just something he does. We talked a lot over the summer. He’s not a bad bloke.”

“In the summer he would just sit there and watch you practice?”

“Not every day,” John excused. It was every day, but the look Bill was giving him said that he shouldn’t let that get out.

“Alright,” Bill let the subject drop, sensing John’s evasiveness.

The rest of the practice went without a problem. John announced the start of try-outs the following day and thanked everyone again for electing him as team captain. They all trudged towards the showers. Sherlock was not waiting outside as usual and John found himself searching for the familiar mop of dark hair.

John changed and said his goodbyes to the team, begging need of some food.

He went to Sherlock’s room on the off chance of him being there. Knocking his three usual knocks, the door pushed open.

Sherlock was resting on his bed, a brown paper package sitting at his feet.

“You have new shampoo,” Sherlock commented, “I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I go to the shop looking for the absolute cheapest shampoo I can get my hands on.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” was all John got back.

“What’s that?” John asked gesturing to the package.

“A present for a friend.”

“Who?” For some reason, John felt a bit jealous that Sherlock was buying presents for other people. He wasn’t sure if it was just because Sherlock wasn’t the sort of chap to be buying things for others or because Sherlock’s brusque manner eliminated the notion that he even had people he was affection enough towards to be buying them a present.

“You. It’s your present.” John couldn’t see it, but he could feel Sherlock’s eye roll.

He grabbed the wrapped parcel and his eyes were immediately drawn to the label.

“God damn it, Sherlock. What did I tell you?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re alluding to. You have told me many things in the months that I’ve known you and I quite frankly don’t care to repeat anything that I’ve been told.”

“I knew it was a bloody Armani shirt.” John looked down at the sleek label before trying to mentally guess how much money he had in his account to spare to try and pay Sherlock back. “You have to let me pay for this. I can’t just let you give me a gift that cost however how much it was.”

“No, you can’t afford it. Open the damn thing, put it on, and stop complaining.”

Only Sherlock could make John feel as though it would be insulting for him to try and pay his own way. There was still a niggling feeling like John was accepting charity, but Sherlock was so insistent and confident that the cost was not a factor.

John opened the parcel and there was a black t-shirt inside. He hated to admit it, but the material was nice and it felt quite comfortable. John took off his t-shirt and pulled the black one on, entirely missing the way Sherlock’s eyes darted to his chest.

“It fits perfectly,” John said admiring himself in Sherlock’s full length mirror. “A bit tighter than I’m used to, but still nice.”

Sherlock privately smiled. He knew it would fit.

“Hey, I really appreciate this, Sherlock. Anything I can do to repay you, let me know.”

“I was the one to dump bleach on you. This is my returning that. Would you please stop going on about it!” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

“Yeah, alright. No need to get angry about it.”

Sherlock rested back in his bed, tilted his head back to rest against the low headboard, and closed his eyes. John took a seat at the table and opened his laptop. He didn’t remember bringing it into Sherlock’s room, but somehow it always managed to make its way out the door, down the hall, and onto Sherlock’s table.

He opened it and typed in his password. An error message greeted him, and John tried it again thinking he had caps lock on or something. He once again received an error message.

“Sherlock why isn’t my computer letting me in?” John asked suspiciously.

“Do you really not know how to spell your own middle name?”

“I can spell Hamish just fine. I, however, do not know what you have changed my password to.”

“Why would you think I changed your password?” Sherlock quirked and eyebrow up and gave John a cheeky smile.

John thought a moment before typing in _youhaveanobviouspassword_. The computer let him through and John felt a bit triumphant.

“I cracked through your stupid code?”

“That wasn’t a code, John. Codes involve cyphers and sequences. That was one individual password.”

“Right, sorry. Leave it to you to correct me on the proper terminology for breaking into my own laptop.” John promptly changed his password to _fuckoffsherlockholmes_.

He smiled to himself and opened his blog. He heard Sherlock get up and could feel the warm breath ghosting across the back of his neck.

Peering over John’s shoulder, Sherlock asked, “Why does that girl Sally insist on the notion that we are romantically linked?”

“I talk about you a lot on here.”

“Why?”

“Because you were the only person I interacted with all summer. I assume that now the school year has started and I have classes and such that I’ll talk more about class and rugby and such.”

“Will you stop talking about me to these people altogether?”

“I might well do.”

“Will you stop talking to me altogether?”

John could see where this was going. It was like when a girl asked if certain trousers made her look fat.

“No, Sherlock. I’ll still talk to you as much as I am able.”

“Good.” Seemingly satisfied, Sherlock went back to his bed.

They sat in companionable silence like that for a few hours. John typed away on his blog and talked a bit with some internet acquaintances while Sherlock read through the next three chapters of his textbook for Physical Chemistry.  John didn’t understand why someone would willingly want to read that, but he didn’t comment. It was far from the weirdest thing he had seen Sherlock do.

John’s stomach gave a hungry grumble. A glance at Sherlock’s massive wall-mounted red LED light clock said that it was 1300 hours and therefore lunch time.

John stood form the desk and stretched, his back to the bed. Sherlock looked, shamelessly.

“I’m going to get some lunch, do you want to come?” John asked.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. We can go to the cafeteria, see what they’re serving. Or we could walk into town and go somewhere there.” The allowance to leave campus without signing out or alerting someone was a sixth form privilege. One that John frequently indulged in.

“Town. I want Angelo’s.” Sherlock rolled himself off the bed and adjusted his hair, shirt, and trousers. Pulling on shoes, he began digging around in the mountain of sheets. “Where’s my bloody wallet?”

“Don’t work about it, I’ll buy.”

“No, you won’t. The food will be free. I have some other purchases to make while we are there.”

“Aha!” Sherlock pulled his black leather wallet from its hiding place and opened it. He checked to make sure his debit card was there and tucked it into his pocket. “Come, John. You did say you were hungry.”

Sherlock swept out of his room with John in tow. They made quite the sight walking across the bulk of the open field to get to the front gate. John noticed some familiar faces and waved. Sherlock scowled the entire walk and practically mowed down anyone who got within a one foot radius. He marched through the gate and didn’t stop until John could see the spire of the town’s church.

“Why don’t you try and make friends?” John asked conversationally.

“Why would I want to make friends? I have you.”

For some reason, that made John remarkably sad. He didn’t feel like a terribly good friend. He still remembered the look on Sherlock’s face when he had tried to say Sherlock would no longer be able to sit with him at dinners.

“I know, but you should still meet people. You know, just for the sake of the stories.”

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he withdrew it, peering at the screen against the sun’s glare.

_Saw you with the freak. Where are you headed? Bill_

_Not a freak. Running errands. JW_

_Have a nice date. Bill_

_Piss off. JW_

John put it away and nearly jumped when Sherlock pointedly cleared his throat.

“Your homophobic friend seems nice,” Sherlock said with obvious distain.

“Bill isn’t homophobic. His dad is a bit, but he’s an ok sort,” John replied defensively.

“As you wish.”

Sherlock opened the door to a cosy Italian restaurant. The sign above the door read _Angelo’s_ in swirling script. 

“Sherlock! How good to see you. How has Mycroft been?” asked a broad burly man with an impressive beard.

“Fine. He’ll be delighted to know you asked after him.”

“My gelato was always his favourite! I saw him in here at least once a week for years.”

John assumed this was Angelo. He had no idea who Mycroft was.

“My brother has since gone on a diet, I’m afraid. He struggles with being fat.” Sherlock preened like a cat, clearly pleased with his brothers wright troubles.

“Nothing wrong with being fat, my boy! It is a sign of wealth, prosperity.”

“Yes, well I don’t need signs of wealth and prosperity.”

John couldn’t contain his snort of laughter. Sherlock gave him a questioning look that clearly demanded elaboration.

“Oh come on, you? You don’t want signs of wealth? Have you seen what you wear, Sherlock? Everything about you including the way you speak says posh.”

“He’s right you know,” Angelo interjected.

“Oh, just give us a table.” Sherlock didn’t wait for a response. He settled himself down in the table with a window and ignored his menu. “Figure out what you want. I already know.”

They ordered and their food was ready before that of the people who had already been waiting ten minutes before the pair even arrived.

“So Mycroft is your older brother than?” John asked.

“Yes, and he is fat.”

“I gathered as much. Did he only go here sixth form?”

“Oh god, no. Perfect Mycroft went straight through and got perfect marks and was the head of his class and Mummy was so terribly proud.”

“You know you’re going to end up being head of our class, too.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to be. I’m simply smarter than all of the other idiots. Mycroft loved it. He basked in being higher than all of his classmates and made sure to tell the teachers and our aunts and our father as often as he could that he was the best.”

John only nodded and continued eating.

“Would you kiss me if I asked you to?”

John nearly choked on his mouthful of pasta.

“What?” he spluttered, “Why would you need to kiss me, Sherlock?” He didn’t answer. _Yes, Yes I would. Over and over._

“It was a simple enough question.” Sherlock looked affronted as though John had just mortally insulted him.

“That’s not the point. In what situation would I need to kiss you?”

“This one,” Sherlock said before smoothly standing and grasping the hand of someone nearly Sherlock’s height with sharp green eyes and a white t-shirt on that was two sizes too small.

“Sherlock! It’s so good to see you again. I had a hunch you’d be coming to this school.” The guy pulled black wayfarers away from his eyes and grinned in a way that made John think of sharks.

“And John. You probably have no idea who I am, but I know all about you.”

John didn’t miss the way the tone and words came out vaguely threatening. He recognized the face, but couldn’t pin a name to it.

“Sebastian Wilkes. We’ve only had one class together. Afraid our schedules just never had the time to overlap. And I’ve never been one for sport, so I don’t really belong in your circle.”

John finally realized where he knew the face from. Sebastian’s father was one of Bart’s top benefactors and he had given a speech to introduce his father on Bart’s History Day. He had been the guest of honour.

“Yes, of course I remember you,” John stood and shook hands. Sherlock snaked an arm around John’s waist and gave an equally toothy grin back at Sebastian.

“If you don’t mind,” Sherlock’s cutting tone chipped a bit at Sebastian’s plastic façade, “I will be getting back to my date, now. Terribly good to see you.”

“Moved on from me, have ya? Well, it’s just as well. Never was much fun. Except in the sack. That was a good summer.” Sebastian put his sunglasses back on and pushed out of the restaurant.

Sherlock still had his arm around John’s waist, both of them standing in the now-empty section of tables like idiots. Sherlock turned to look at John and gently kissed him. It was barely a touch of lips. Before John had time to properly react, Sherlock was gone. Out the door.

John tried to leave money for the meal, but Angelo waved him off.

“Go chase after him,” the man insisted with a knowing smirk, “God knows he needs someone to chase after him.” Angelo waved as John thanked him and made a dash for it.

He stood outside feeling relatively helpless. _Had Sherlock gone for the supplies he had mentioned or just run straight back to campus?_

John took a chance and ran off towards Bart’s. He was grateful for the forced rugby runs. When he got back, there was no sign of Sherlock. He wasn’t in his room, he wasn’t sulking in the library, he wasn’t in any of his usual “avoiding people” corners.

John went back to his room. Pushing open the door, Andy jumped up and barely gave John a moment to register the body occupying his bed.

“Mate, you gotta get him out of here. He keeps talking about my family and my dad and it’s freaking me out. How does he know all this shit?” Andy looked slightly manic. He was waving broadly at Sherlock and pointed deliberately at John as though it was all John’s fault.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” John apologised quickly, “Sherlock can I talk to you in your room instead?”

“I don’t see why that would be necessary, John. Anything you have to say I’m sure you can say here in front of your supposed _best_ friend.” Sherlock spit the word and it wasn’t missed on Andy.

“Hey, we are best mates. I know more about this bloke than even your little trick and conjure up,” Andy said defensive. He stood like he was ready to grab Sherlock and bodily force him out of the room.

John saved him the trouble. Reaching for Sherlock’s arm, John grabbed him and hauled him up. Ignoring the loud protests, John dragged the taller boy down the hall and shoved him into his own room.

“Explain,” John demanded. He sat himself in his usual chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Every inch the unmovable force.

“There is nothing to explain. I would like for you to get out of my room now. I will call someone to have you taken.”

“No, you won’t.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He flopped onto his bed as he was wont to do and rolled onto his side.

“Sherlock why did you kiss me if no one was looking?” John asked hesitantly.

“Why does it matter?”

“I like to know someone’s motivations behind kisses when I happen to be the one involved.” John paused and replayed the entire interaction in his head. “And who was that prick? Did you seriously used to date him? Not really your type.”

“And what would you know of my type, John? What sort of person do you imagine being my type?”

“Well,” John thought about it. If he was being honest, he didn’t really think Sherlock had a type up until now. He didn’t see Sherlock as gay or straight or really sexual in any way.

“You’re gay then?” John ventured.

“Oh, brilliant deduction, John. How are people not sitting by your feet every moment waiting for you to preach such astounding observations?” Sherlock mocked.

“Hey, I’m just trying to get everything sorted in my head. Don’t take the piss just because I’m not as smart as you.” John stopped, mentally gathering what he knew of Sherlock and relationships before starting again.

“You’re gay. To my knowledge you have only been involved with two males, Victor and Sebastian Wilkes. Your relationship with Sebastian had at least some level of physical intimacy based on his blatant reference.  Victor may or may not have been abusive to an extent.” John looked up at Sherlock’s back for confirmation. “How did I do?”

“Well enough for a person of average level intelligence, but not nearly as much as I have managed to deduce from you.” Sherlock’s voice was haughty.

“Enlighten me then. Start wherever you want.”

“You let me kiss you,” Sherlock redirected. “You didn’t try to fight me or pull away. You just relaxed. Did you notice your pulse? Of course you wouldn’t. I did. It sped up a touch.”

“My pulse? You had the chance to take my pulse in those few seconds?” John didn’t even remember Sherlock pressing two fingers against his wrist. It seemed like only a moment.

“You enjoyed it. Are you going to need time to adjust to your latent bisexuality?” Sherlock rolled over so that he was on his opposite side facing John. He held the other in place with a steady look.

“Latent bisexuality?” John was grinning, “Sherlock I’m seventeen. I’ve had enough time to come to terms with it, thanks.”

“You’ve never been in a relationship with a male.”

“Doesn’t mean I am amidst a sexuality crisis. You’re misdirecting me. Tell me of Sebastian.”

“Oh god!” Sherlock groaned loudly, “Sebastian hardly matters! He was for a week, not even. It was last summer and terribly boring. His family lives near my Grand-meré and I spent the first month of last summer with them before I moved here.”

“You’re French?”

“A bit. My mother’s family. My father is purely English to the most grievous of faults.”

“Wait, you knew him for a month and in that time met, started a relationship, and were shagging?”

“Yes.”

“Blimey.”

Sherlock sat up and folded his hands together. “What conclusions are you drawing of me, then?”

“I think you are a quick judge of who is and is not worthy of your time.”

Sherlock’s smile told John that he had come up with the right answer.

“Not a slag, then?” Sherlock challenged.

“Not a slag then.” John grinned and uncrossed his arms. The conversation was going far better than he was anticipating. He expected an extremely obstinate Sherlock, but the conversation was steadily plodding on.

“You want to know of Victor.”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I don’t. Not now. I’ve told you of Sebastian.”

“Fair enough. I wasn’t expecting a full soul baring.”

“You last shagged a girl who lives in the town near here. She works in the summer at the ice cream stand. You still owe me one, you know.”

“Owe you what?”

“An ice cream.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sherlock wanted to ask John about the kiss. There was only so much he could tell from observations. But John was relaxed and he seemed happy and Sherlock would give anything to keep him looking like that.

“I need to collect condensation from the roof of the school before dawn. Will you come?”

“I can’t, Sherlock. I’ll be sleeping. And I have try outs to run tomorrow. Oh! I forgot to tell you, I’m captain.”

“I know. I told you that you would be.”

“I appreciate the confidence.”

“It isn’t confidence, John, it is fact. You clearly are more dedicated to the team. Not only because you need them to remain at this school, but also because you are more passionate about the sport. Playing rugby means everything to you. It is your ticket to an education here, your escape from your past life, and a physical assurance that you are not worthless. I knew you would get captain because the team would be composed entirely of fools if you did not. And I like to assume that there has to be some amount of substance in a student for being permitted here.”

John was across the room is a few strides. His hand was on Sherlock’s waist and their positions put John at a height advantage. He paused, as though he was unsure if Sherlock was going to pull back. The hesitation was only a second before John was kissing him again.

God, it felt marvellous. John’s lips were slightly chapped from constantly licking them while running. His hand on Sherlock’s side was steady, grounding. There was a series of close-mouthed kisses and then John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s.

“You are amazing,” John said with a twinge of breathlessness.

Sherlock didn’t have any words for that. People had called him any number of compliments before, but never with the incredible openness that John had. His eyes were clear and honest and he meant every syllable.

“What does this mean, Sherlock?” John asked. His hands were still on Sherlock’s side and the back of his neck and his lips were close enough that Sherlock could feel John’s breath.

He didn’t want to answer that question. It required a label and an explanation and feelings leading to commitments. It was much easier for him to just stretch up the tiniest bit to kiss John again. Because Sherlock was lying on the bed, John had to bend down to return the kissing.

So he did. And it was just as amazing as the first time he kissed John. Better. He hoped that it only got better every single time. 

John didn’t protest. He leaned slightly forwards and coaxed Sherlock’s lips apart. Carefully, god so damn carefully, John licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth. He went a bit deeper with each swipe of his tongue.

Sherlock sighed into John’s mouth and relaxed his shoulders. John felt the subtle shift. He pressed a little harder and Sherlock yielded to the pressure.

A hard knock on the door interrupted them. John jerked back violently. He was startled by the sound. Sherlock stifled the lightning flash of hurt at John’s reaction. He pulled an expressionless mask over his featured before opening the door.

Andy stood shuffling on the other side.

“Hi-ya,” Andy said.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped out.

“Well I did want to apologise for being a bit of an arse to you earlier,” Andy snapped back. “Never mind though. You carry on being a prat.”

Sherlock closed the door in Andy’s face and turned back to John.

“You really should try and be nicer to him,” John tried, “He’s a nice bloke.”

“Eh,” Sherlock murmured.

They lapsed back into silence. John stayed in his chair and Sherlock on his bed. John was thinking and staring into space. Sherlock could feel it. John’s emotions and all his questions, Sherlock could feel them moving around as though they were live ants parading along his hairline.

“One question. You may ask me one of the questions that are currently fighting themselves in your head and I will answer it. The rest of them are for another time.” Sherlock waited for John to make his decision.

John smiled and checked his watch. “Would you like to go to the library with me? Sally keeps nagging me to read a book and I want to check if school has it. It’ll spare me a trip to town to try and see if their library has it.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh. Of all the things. “I’ll go.”

***

The library was deserted. Unless exams were coming, it was always deserted.

John wandered away down an aisle in the fiction section while Sherlock walked over to the non-fiction section.

It didn’t take long for John to find the correct book. He went in search of Sherlock, _The Hobbit_ clutched in his hand.

Sherlock was on his knees scanning through the bottommost shelf of Chemistry books when John walked up.

“What are you looking for?” John asked.

“Something interesting.”

“That’s a very narrow requirement, especially coming from you.”

John sat on the floor beside where Sherlock had stopped. He pulled out a book at random, examined it, and put it back.

“What do you generally like to read? Topic wise.” John asked.

“Science.”

“That could not possibly be a broader answer. What kind of science?”

“The kind involving bodies.”

“A bit macabre. Have you read anything on Jack the Ripper?”

“Don’t be daft, John. Of course I’ve read on Jack the Ripper. Far more extensively than I suspect you have, at any rate.”

John could feel the eye roll even though he couldn’t see it. There was something about Sherlock’s tone. It changed subtly whenever he thought he was dealing with someone intellectually beneath him.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m trying to help. What about Ted Bundy?”

“Read it.”

“Why don’t you read some of the cold cases?”

“Which cold cases?” Sherlock stood abruptly and his face was inches from John’s.

“I don’t know. Sometimes cases are published if they’re really old. In America there is an entire television programme dedicated to unsolved cases. Multiple. Sally’s addicted to them. She spends all her time watching them and trying to solve the cases.”

“I’ve never heard of these shows.”

“Did you watch any telly while you were in the colonies?”

“No.”

“Might be why you’ve never heard of them.”

“Show me,” Sherlock said as he grabbed John’s arm. He practically dragged John back to his room and clicked John’s laptop back to life.

“Hang on, let me ask Sally what ones are the best to try and solve.”

It didn’t take long for John to get a response. Sally sent back a list of individual programmes, some of the best episodes from each, and her own conclusions.

“I don’t need her stupid ideas about how to solve a case.”

“Sally is actually really good at them. You should compare what you get to what she has. Maybe you two will be able to actually put things together.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Fine, do it your way.”

Sherlock took John’s laptop to his bed and began clicking through the links. Many of them were deemed boring right from the start. Some, however, merited a second look. He rested with the laptop on his chest while some American narrator dramatically outlined the bare minimum of the case.

John moved from his usual chair to the bed. Looking down on Sherlock, he said, “Budge up.”

Sherlock looked up at him, blinked, and then scooted closer to the wall to make room for John. The shorter boy fit himself on half of the bed. He rested his head back on one of Sherlock’s many extra pillows and opened his book.

They didn’t need to think about it or make it complicated. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of this, having never shared a bed with someone in this casual context. John, however, wanted to be closer to Sherlock. He didn’t bother himself with what that meant. If Sherlock wasn’t ready to define their relationship, John could wait. This, though, just being next to him; this was good.

John smiled and began to read: _In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and update every two weeks, but it may not be exact. This is the last chapter where it is going to be rated Mature. I'm raising it to Explicit with the next chapter. Thanks for reading! Any comments and kudos are far more than welcome.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry this took so long! I don't post a chapter until I have the next one ready and written just in case I have to take a break. Chapter 4 has been fighting me, though. Here chapter 3 is, finally! I hope you enjoy. Also, please note that the rating was raised from M to E.

 The first few months of school ran past. John had settled into being captain and try outs had gone well. John was especially pleased about one of the newcomers, Mike Stamford. He was in John’s year and just transferred. Not only did Mike make the cut for the rugby team, but he was in all John’s classes. John didn’t know it, but Mike wanted to be a doctor as well.

Sherlock lost himself to the cold cases. Some he solved, some he didn’t. On one memorable occasion, Sherlock correctly solved one case that Sally thought she had nailed down. Just to prove that he was right, Sherlock directly called the detective who had been the head of the investigation.

Completely baffled by Sherlock’s deductions, the man had agreed once again to take a look at the murder. Sherlock had been correct. The detective wanted to meet the man that had finally put a violent killer to rest. He was a bit less eager to meet Sherlock when he discovered that Sherlock was a 15 year old English boarding school student. Nevertheless, John had been extremely impressed with Sherlock’s American accent.

The Christmas holiday was quickly coming and John was starting to cut back a bit on the rugby practices. It was the last week in November and none of the boys, John included, could keep their mind on rugby. On the twentieth of December they would all be going home to mince pies and presents.

Well, all except John. He expected that he was going to end up staying at school over Christmas just like he had every Christmas before. His presents for Harry were already wrapped and shipped. She liked getting them early anyways. He’d call her from his dorm room on Christmas Eve and listen to her complain about Auntie and how badly she wanted to run away.

Harry was going away for Sixth Form anyway. She was going to be an artist. Two years younger than John, he had been trying to put away money to help Harry go to school because he knew she wouldn’t get a scholarship. It wasn’t much, but what he had he would give her.

After a bit of debate, John even bought a gift for Sherlock. He hadn’t kissed Sherlock since that first day. Their relationship had definitely changed, though. They spent more time relaxing in bed in Sherlock’s room. Sherlock showed up to more of John’s practices and would magically appear when John was trying to study in the library.

John’s rugby mates had noticed, but few wanted to comment on their captain’s habits. The only one who was blatantly homophobic was Bill and thus far he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. John didn’t think it was going to last.

Mike, on the other hand, worshipped Sherlock. Form the first day they met and Sherlock had rambled through Mike’s entire history, the poor guy had been hooked. He asked Sherlock’s help on homework, complimenting him on how smart he was and how he just seemed to understand everything. If John was in the library studying, Mike would sometimes wander over in the hopes that Sherlock would show up as well.

John knew Mike didn’t have a crush, just an odd fascination with Sherlock’s mind. No matter how Sherlock tried to deny that Mike was like his puppy, it was unavoidable. Sherlock had an avid fan.

***

“What are you doing over Christmas, then?” John asked Sherlock one night. They were both resting on Sherlock’s bed and John was making his way through the fourteenth chapter of _The_ _Hobbit_. Classes didn’t give much time to read, but he was looking forward to finishing it over break.

“I’m being forced home to go to the estate for Christmas dinner with the rest of them.” Sherlock had his computer balanced on his chest again, sorting through various typed up notes he had on the bruising patterns of a corpse.

“That sounds like it’ll be fun. You should try and make it fun, at least.”

“It won’t be even close to being enjoyable unless you’re there. Fun is a hopeless goal.” Sherlock jumped like he had just had the most brilliant idea, a real Eureka moment. “Come with me.”

“What?” John asked startled.

“Come home with me for Christmas. Mother has been dying for me to bring someone home, anyone at all. She is worried that I have no friends. If I bring you home, I get the benefit of having a friend home to appease my mother and the bonus of having your company to distract me from my insufferable brother.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just randomly invite people home with you.”

“I can, and as you’ve just seen, I did.”

“I want you to actually ask your mother before I’ll agree to come.”

“What better do you have to do, John?” Sherlock pushed the computer away and sat up, looking at John still lying on his bed. “You’ll stay here and be miserable and spend your Christmas watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special and that’ll be the highlight. You won’t get any presents and you won’t have any fun.”

“I thought there was no hope for fun at your estate?” John mimicked dramatically, “As a matter of fact, fun was a hopeless goal!”

“Will you come?”

“Ask your mother. If she’ll let me, I’ll go.”

John was smiling, much more excited than he was letting on. He only remembered two times that he had a happy Christmas. A real traditional happy Christmas. And both of those instances were whilst his mother was still alive.

John’s mother loved Christmas. She bought the most perfect presents and John’s dad sobered up for the day and on one occasion even told John he loved him. It was something to be marvelled and cherished. Since his mother died, Christmas at the Watson household was no longer a joyous thing. Rather, it was sad and it hurt and John’s father was drunk to the point of passing out by noon. So John slowly grew to associate Christmas with horrible things. Struggling to give Harry a present. Telling Harry that he didn’t need a present that year. Why would he when he had her?

John was looking forward to Christmas at the Holmes residence. It meant something good. Even if Sherlock didn’t think so.

Sherlock was babbling away on his mobile. A series of “Yes, mother,” and, “No, Mother.”

John almost laughed. Sherlock never called anyone, not if he could help it. And he never sounded so obedient. He hung up and grinned winningly at John.

“You’re coming for Christmas. Mother has plenty of rooms at the estate so you’ll have your own area.”

“Really? That’s brilliant, Sherlock. Really. Thank you so much!”

John was looking forward to Christmas much more. Sherlock settled back in bed with his laptop and began reading again. John had set his book aside and was watching Sherlock think.

“That’s incredibly distracting, I wish you’d stop,” Sherlock said. Though he didn’t sound bothered in the least.

“Can I kiss you again?” John asked.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“No, but I am still curious.”

“Because you’ve just done something remarkable and it has made me happy and I would really quite like to kiss you.” John hoped Sherlock said yes. It had been so long and John wanted a taste of the same feeling he got the first time they kissed.

“Yes, you may,” Sherlock permitted.

John leaned down and gently brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. He smiled at Sherlock’s yielding and pressed a bit harder. John’s tongue teased at Sherlock’s lower lip until Sherlock finally consented and opened his mouth the slightest bit.

John pulled back and smiled like he had just won a thousand dollars. “You are amazing, you know that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course you do.”

John kissed him lightly once more and then settled back to read. He was still unwilling to ask Sherlock what they were. Boyfriends? Friends with benefits? Friends who occasionally made out? Friends who make out and bring one another home for Christmas sounded a hell of a lot like boyfriends to John, but he was still going to wait for Sherlock to define exactly what they were. Because for John it was fine, it was all fine.

***

The last couple weeks flew by and John was far too excited to concentrate on much. He did all of his schoolwork that was meant to be for break over the last few days. John had everything packed, as well as Sherlock’s present. He was concerned that it wouldn’t ship in time, but it arrived and was perfect. Sherlock’s Christmas present done, John had already begun searching for his birthday present.

Bart’s didn’t call the boys back until the second week of January. John, by miraculous intervention, managed to discover that Sherlock’s birthday was the 6th of January. Pleased that they would be on break for that, John debated asking Sherlock’s mum to throw a party. But that could be decided later.

Two days before they were set to leave, John had his suitcase sitting out and half packed. Everything was meticulously arranged so that it would all fit and provide cushion for Sherlock’s Christmas present. John had it secured so that there was no chance it could break from travels. He left out just enough clothes for the next two days and his school blazer.

Beside him, Andy was getting the last of his things together for the holidays as well.

“You know, I’m glad you’re not going to be trapped here again for Christmas,” Andy said. His family was going to Switzerland to ski for the break.

“Yeah, it’ll be good to get out of here for a while,” John agreed.

“You’re really going to go home with Sherlock? All the times I’ve asked you and you’ve said no. What about him is different?”

“I don’t know. There’s just something about him. Plus he’s a stubborn arse and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” John smiled at the memory.

“Yeah well, some of the lads are starting to talk. You know. About the two of you.” Andy didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but someone had to tell John.

“What about?”

“Are you shaggin’ him?” Andy asked bluntly.

“No.”

“Is that a _no we aren’t shagging_ or a _no we aren’t shagging but I want to_ sort of no?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he doesn’t exactly give off signals like a normal person.”

“Yeah, I got that much. The entire bloody school got that much. It’s just the way you look at him. You hang on to every word he said like it’s the bloody gospel.”

“No I don’t!”

“John, what shirt are you wearing?”

John didn’t even have to look down at himself to know. He was wearing the black Armani V-neck that Sherlock had bought him. It was strange. He didn’t wear it for the longest time because he felt guilty over the price. Then all of sudden one day Sherlock mentioned it and John put it on. It was one side comment Sherlock made about how John looked in it, and John started wearing it more and more. It quickly became his favourite shirt.

“Just because I’m wearing a shirt he bought me doesn’t mean anything.”

“John,” Andy said teasingly, “Blokes just don’t buy one another clothes. I mean my girl has bought me clothes. And I’ve bought her…well I don’t think it counts as clothing per say.” Andy winked at John. John struggled to picture the other boy in a lingerie store, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“It’s not a big deal. It was one shirt and just a replacement.” John was feeling a bit defensive, like it mattered that Sherlock had bought him a shirt. It was hardly an engagement ring.

“It’s still something different. I’m just saying that you and him are pretty close. Just careful that it doesn’t rub the wrong people the wrong way, yeah?”

“I’ll try to not piss too many people off,” John conceded with a wry grin.

Andy knew the tone and the look on John’s face. They both just told him to fuck off and that John was agreeing simply to humour him. Well that was fine. He’d stick around just because John was his best mate, but beyond that he needed to stop turning so many heads. Bart’s boys didn’t like things being shaken up.

John went over his suitcase again. Andy just shook his head, wondering how a person could be so far in denial.

John decided not to have practice on the last two nights at school. He ended up spending the time in Sherlock’s room, to no one’s surprise. Propped up in Sherlock’s bed with his laptop resting on his thighs, John busied himself with trying to re-learn a half-year’s worth of microbiology with one of the world’s top microbiologists looming over his shoulder.

“John, that is B not C,” Sherlock corrected for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Really?” John asked smirking.

“You intentionally gave an incorrect answer.” Sherlock did not seem amused.

“It’s ok, I like it when you try and help me,” John replied. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

A pale hand came up and cupped John’s cheek to pull him closer. Sherlock kissed him the way John imagined Sherlock tried a new food. Thoroughly and with a clinical precision that John found surprisingly pleasurable. Sherlock’s tongue traced the contours of John’s mouth and dipped in each corner, mapping the ridges and contours.

John pulled back and nosed against Sherlock’s jawline. He kissed a trail up to the dip behind Sherlock’s ear and nipped at the lobe.

“I love kissing you,” John said quietly.

Sherlock hummed in response and turned his head to catch John’s lips again. It was things like this that made John wish he knew where they stood. Sitting lazily kissing mid-afternoon was something that boyfriends do. It wasn’t something that casual whatever-they-were did.

“I find enjoyment in kissing you,” Sherlock said plainly. John couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are the only person that I have ever met to say that you find enjoyment in kissing me,” John moved his laptop to the bottom of the bed and moved to press his body against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s laptop was still resting on his chest and John wanted to take it, close it, and move it out of his way, but Sherlock had an iron grip on the frame even though his head was turned for John to kiss him. Deciding to ignore the computer, John went up on his knees and moves to straddle Sherlock’s thighs. He traces his fingertips up Sherlock’s arms and pointedly looks at the computer.

“What?” Sherlock asked, clearly missing John’s meaning.

“Do you mind?” John gestured towards the computer.

“No. If I minded that the computer was on my chest I would have moved it.”

John rolled his eyes. Maybe a blunt approach was better. “Sherlock, move your computer so I can make out with you here on your bed, please.”

“Oh,” Sherlock looked contemplative. Then he shut the computer and pushed it away. Grabbing John by his shoulders, Sherlock pulled him down and crushed their mouths together. John groaned and pressed his chest flush against Sherlock’s lean frame. He grinded his pelvis down again Sherlock’s and was quickly getting harder.

“Wait, John stop,” Sherlock grabbed John’s hips and stilled him, pulling back. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I was making out with you. Is that a problem?”

“No, with your hips. What is that?”

“Sorry, did that make you uncomfortable?” John was hesitant now, nervous. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t ready for that yet.

“No, it…” Sherlock paused searching for the right words. “It was good.”

“Really?” John smiled, encouraged by Sherlock’s response. He tucked his head in again searching for another kiss. Sherlock met him half way. John moved his hips again, more subtly this time, so Sherlock could stop him if he wanted.

They carried on like that until John was breathless and panting and aching to get off.

“Sherlock, touch me. Please touch me,” John asked. He took Sherlock’s hand and guided it to his crotch. Simultaneously, John cupped Sherlock’s erection in his hand and began gently tracing his fingers along the shaft through trousers and pants.

“ _God_ ,” Sherlock gasped. His fingers made quick work of John’s jeans button and pushed them down to mid-thigh. He pushed the band of John’s pants down so it tucked under his balls. Taking his cock in hand, Sherlock stroked it once, twice, alternating pressure.

John groaned and canted his hips forwards, moving with the rhythm of Sherlock’s hand. He turned and nipped at Sherlock’s ear, whispering filthy things just so see a bright red flush stretch its way up his pale chest.

John pushed Sherlock’s trousers and pants down and took him in hand. They moved together  as though they had been doing it for years, but it had the electricity that John had begun to associate with Sherlock’s eyes.

John came across Sherlock’s hand and shirt gasping Sherlock’s name like a Hail Mary.

John didn’t still his hand. He kept moving, encouraging Sherlock to come as well.

“Please, let me see it. I want to watch you,” John said, his throat dry. “Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous.”

“I…god, fuck, John!” Sherlock said as he came, loud enough that John though the lads in the adjacent room could have heard.

John stood with zero grace due to the clothing restricting his thighs. He grabbed one of Sherlock’s discarded pyjama shirts and used it to clean himself off before moving to clean Sherlock as best as he could.

“That, what you did there. That was good,” Sherlock said. The bastard had caught his breath and was sitting up, pulling his pants and trousers back as though nothing had happened.

“I’m glad you liked it,” John said. He was ready to laugh out loud. He had never had anyone compliment him about getting off. Then again, Sherlock was not like anyone he had ever been with.

“What are we then?” John blurted before his brain had time to catch up.

“What do you mean what are we?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a more specific question.

“Are we just friends who occasionally get off together or more?” John shifted around to face Sherlock fully. He had never felt nervous about relationships. John prided himself on being relatively confident and able to charm someone if the situation called for such things.

“Do you want to be more?” It was like a dare.

“I think we already are. Hell, half the lads on the rugby team assume that we are already more than just people who occasionally get off together.”

“Why would it matter what the rugby team thinks? Oh, sorry. I forgot that you valued their clearly precious opinions. Is that why you are asking me this? Doing this?” Sherlock was angry. He stood and began pacing. _Of course John wouldn’t want to be with him. It was just something the fucking rugby players had pushed him into. Stupid. What happened to never get attached?_

“No, Sherlock. I’m asking you for me. If you want this to be exclusive, that would be fine with me. Since we started this, whatever it is, I haven’t gone after anyone or talked to anyone at all.”

“Then what is it that you want from me?”

“I want this to be an exclusive thing. I would like if you were my boyfriend. I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.” John stood as well, looking slightly up at Sherlock with the patience of a saint.

“Are you asking me if that is what I want?”

“I’m telling you that it is what I want and also asking you if it coincides with what you want. In that case, we will mutually agree to be monogamous boyfriends.” John knew that stating it outright would minimalize Sherlock’s habit of misunderstanding things by taking it literally.

“I…yes. Yes.” Sherlock tested the words in his mouth, agreeing to commit himself to one person.

“Really?” John was surprised but shook it away. “Good. Yeah. Good.”

He smiled then, the bright vibrant smile that Sherlock loved being the source of. John tilted his head back and Sherlock bowed his for a kiss. It was smooth and soft and slow and John had never kissed anyone with as much feeling before.

“I have to tell my mother,” Sherlock murmured.

“What was that?” John asked.

“I have to tell my mother.”

That made John burst out laughing. Stroking a thumb across Sherlock’s cheek.

“Yes,” John nodded, “I suppose you do.”

***

It was freezing outside and John shivered against Sherlock.

“When did you say the car was coming to pick us up?” John asked. The pair was standing outside with their luggage waiting for Sherlock’s driver to fetch them from school. They were well past ready to be taken to the Holmes estate.

“Your mother knows I’m coming, yes?” John asked for what was probably the twentieth time.

“Yes, she knows I am bringing you.”

“Does she know that you’re bringing me as your boyfriend?”

“In so many words.”

“Don’t in so many words me, does she know or doesn’t she?”

“She knows you are attending but I may have been vague as to the nature of our relationship.”

“So you haven’t actually told her that we’re together.”

“I have not outright stated that you are my boyfriend and that we have entered into a monogamous partnership.”

John laughed and his breath formed a cloud puff. “Just as well, I guess. I’m sure she’ll figure it out.”

John pressed himself tighter against Sherlock’s side, seeking warmth from the taller boy’s ridiculous coat. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets and Sherlock was wearing sleek black gloves. A blue scarf wound its way around Sherlock’s neck and partially blocked Sherlock’s own puffs of heated air.

A rich, red wine coloured car pulled up to the kerb. An older man in a black suit with a chauffer’s hat on got out and grabbed two suitcases to put in the trunk.

Sherlock opened the door and ushered John into the back seat. He followed, pushing John over to the other side of the vehicle. The last of their bags were put into the boot and they were off.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Sherlock said.

John gave him a look. “You never say thank you.”

“Mother would be displeased if she found that I failed to display a modicum of civility, especially to someone as good as Andrew. We would be hard pressed to find someone with such excellent work.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes. If I may apologise for being late today, I was briefly detained by the elder Mr Holmes.”

“What did my brother have you do that was so terribly important?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Pick up the ambassador to Japan and take him to the Diogenes Club.”

“Pointless. He could have sent any number of his cronies to fetch him. I explicitly told mother that I would need you to get me from school because of the cold.”

John held back a laugh. It sounded like an ordinary fight between brothers, who was allowed to use the car. Of course, it was on a much higher scale and involved people John could never how to compete with.

Sherlock noticed the side smile and crossed his arms in a huff. It reminded John of a boy who used to live up the street from him. John was eleven and had a level head on his shoulders. He had life skills beyond eleven years. The other boy, though, did not. Jamie was younger, granted, but he was also spoiled and had no concept of what it was to want and work for something. On one Sunday morning, Jamie’s mother denied him ice cream. The ensuing fit was one for the ages.

Sherlock’s expression matched that of Jamie when denied ice cream. John didn’t voice this, but he knew Sherlock could feel his amusement.

The majority of the ride was spent with Sherlock in a slump and John finding it increasingly less funny. He reached his hand across their seats to take Sherlock’s. There was no comment, but Sherlock’s fingers curled around his. They spent the last third of the way in quiet, but it was comfortable.

John kept his eyes out the window. The countryside stretched on for seemingly infinitely long hills. They left the campus of Bart’s behind them and entered a more residential area. The first home that John saw was a smaller cottage settled on what appeared to be about three acres of land. The further away from the school they went, the larger the houses seemed to become.

Andrew took them down a few turns and came before a gate. It was tall and connected to a wall made of white stones that went down equally far on both sides before turning inwards.

“The wall surrounds the entire estate,” Sherlock said. He looked surly and uncomfortable to be in the shadow.

Andrew pressed a button on a black box level with the car window. It buzzed and the gate opened.

“Welcome back, Andrew,” A smoke roughened male voice said.

“Thanks, Miles. You have a cuppa for me when I get in?” Andrew said.

“Already put the kettle on, lazy bastard.”

Andrew laughed and pulled forward. The stone path they were following went on between trees dead with the winter. John felt like he had walked into _The Sound of Music_.

The road led to a broad semi-circle leading to the largest home John had ever seen. It was wide and made entirely of white or cream coloured stones. There was a large double wooden door reminiscent of the front door of Bart’s. A green wreath adorned the door and a great red ribbon hung upon it. John liked the impact. He could see candles in each top floor window, but they were unlit. He knew it would be beautiful once night fell.

“This is where you live?” John asked unable to keep the slight curl of awe out of his voice.

“Yes. Dreadful, isn’t it?” Sherlock wasn’t looking out the window. Something on the corner of his sleeve had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

“No, not at all. It’s gorgeous. I think about seven of my homes would fit in it. Well, it’s not really my home anymore, but you understand.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as the car rolled to a stop in front of the door.

Sherlock got out first and waited for John to follow him. He shut the door just as a man in a suit jacket opened the door to the house.

John went to the boot moving to grab his bags, but Andrew waved him off.

“No, go in and get warm, Mr Watson,” Andrew said, “I’ll take care of your bags and see that they get to your room.”

“Oh, are you sure? I would be just fine taking my own things.” John was not used to having someone help him and move his things. Independent his entire life, John had become accustomed to a self-sustained lifestyle. He did the grocery shopping, managing finances, basic things like moving the heavy stuff. Sherlock lived in such a way that he barely had to lift a finger. John was starting to see how that could make someone rather haughty.

Andrew waved John off again and he reluctantly obeyed. Sherlock waited for him at the top of the few stairs that led to the front door.

“This is Charles, the butler,” Sherlock said.

“Pleasure, John Watson,” John said extending his hand.

Charles gave a slight incline of his head, “Hello, Mr Watson. This way please. Mr Holmes, your mother is pleased you have come for the holidays.”

“I expect she would be. Has the arse gotten here yet?” Sherlock followed Charles down the hall and John after. There were family portraits on the wall, and one of a young boy standing before the familiar doors of Bart’s. John assumed it was Sherlock’s elder brother.

“No, Mr Holmes has yet to arrive to the estate. He is expected after a meeting that I was led to believe is terribly important.”

Sherlock seemed brightened by the news that his brother would not be there. “More cakes for John and me, then.”

Charles pushed open a door that led to a simply furnished sitting room. It had a few high-backed chairs and a table in the middle. Tea was out as well as a few biscuits of an impressive variety.

A woman sat in one of the chairs, Jane Austen’s _Sense and Sensibility_ held open in her lap. She didn’t look up when the trio entered, merely continued reading. John began to shuffle nervously after the ten second mark and glanced at Sherlock as though he would tell John to introduce himself. Do something to fill the silence. No such signal was received. Sherlock stood still and waited with more patience than John had ever seen. Certainly more silence.

She reached the end of the page, put a richly decorated gold coloured bookmark in the seam, and shut it. Setting the book aside, the woman stood up and was beaming at Sherlock.

“My dear Sherlock,” she began, “how lovely to see you. I’ve missed you, darling. No letters or calls, dreadful of you to neglect your mother.”

She embraced Sherlock and the hug was returned.

“I’m sorry I didn’t send notice of my progress, mother. I was occupied with my studies.”

“Oh of course, my brilliant boy. And you must be John.” She turned and gave John an equally warm hug. “I’m Violet. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“Yes, you as well.” John automatically comparing the welcoming warmth of Violet to the cold crassness of her son. It didn’t match up.

“Come, sit. You two must be exhausted from school and the trip out. Tea?” Violet sat and Sherlock and John followed her lead.

“Yes, tea would be perfect,” John said. Sherlock just shook his head and leaned to his right, automatically putting himself closer to John.

“Tell me, Sherlock, do you enjoy your classes?” Violet handed John his tea and turned a keen eye on her son.

John could see where Sherlock got many of his features. Violet had dark hair and vibrant emerald coloured eyes. She was sharp, John could tell, and sturdy. He didn’t ask where Sherlock’s father was, but that was not the sort of thing one just blurts out. Violet looked to be doing just fine on her own in spite of the current lack of husband.

John had phased out a bit and Sherlock nudged him back to the conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” John asked, doing better to remain focused.

“I asked how you liked Bartholomew’s,” Violet repeated.

“I really love it. I haven’t been there the full time, but close. I enjoy the classes and they have good facilities.”

“Sherlock tells me you play rugby.”

“Yeah, I’m the captain of the team.”

“How lovely! My boys were never really for sport. Sherrinford used to love it.”

John didn’t comment on the unfamiliar name. He could ask Sherlock later.

“I suspect you’ll want a quick nap before dinner. We’re not really expecting guests for another few days. It’s still two weeks to Christmas Day and the family starts arriving about a week before, just to get settled and things. I’ve had your room and the room adjacent made up for you and your friend, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Sherlock stood and John followed suit.

“I’m sure you remember the way. All those days away haven’t dulled your senses. I’m sure of it. Go, get a nap. Margaret can get you when it is nearly time for dinner.” Violet shooed them off.

John and Sherlock were both more than ready to go. A nap sounded perfect.

Sherlock led John through hallway after hallway, the house finely decorated with simple but elegant pieces. Photographs and paintings adorned every wall. Occasionally, Sherlock would stop to point out something interesting about a photograph or share a fact about a painter. He stopped at every photograph where Mycroft was overweight just to point out to John what a fat man his elder brother was. At each stop John nodded dutifully and agreed that Mycroft was indeed over weight.

They reached Sherlock’s room. He pushed open the door and John stepped in. It was finely furnished with a cherry wood king-sized bed, a sofa, television mounted to the wall, a chair that was overcome with books, a shelf likewise overcome, and dressers in various shapes and sizes. The walls were a pale green that complimented the various cherry wood furnishings and green bedspread.

“The bathroom is that way,” Sherlock pointed towards a door that was located to the right and beside a dresser. “The left door is a joining room. That’s where mother expect you to be sleeping. Frankly, it is ill-suited for inhabitants. I tend to do experiments in there.”

John walked in and opened the left door. There was a full side bed pushed all the way into one corner. The bulk of the room was taken up by a laboratory table ­ all metal and inundated with various instruments of science. It looked similar to the way Sherlock’s dorm room would if John never made him clean.

“I’m not actually expected to sleep in here, am I?” John asked.

“Of course not. You’ll be staying with me in my room.” Sherlock backed out of the attached room and back into his. He flopped down on the sofa and John got the distinct feeling that the sofa experienced such a sudden weight many times a day. 

“Is your mother going to have a problem with me sharing your bed?” John looked down at Sherlock. His question was greeted with an eye roll.

“How would she know if you do not tell her?”

“Won’t she come in here and clean? Or your cleaner come in here? She’ll be able to tell.”

“No. No one comes in this room except me, and now you. Cleaners do not come in here because I have explicitly told each of them not to. I have also taken measures to assure that they won’t.”

“Why? Sherlock, they clean your house. You have to be polite to them.”

“Why?”

“What the hell do you mean, why? It’s like being nice to waiters or cashiers. They have shitty jobs and you have to be nice to them because they are doing you a service and you owe them a bit of respect.”

“The only times I ever go out to a restaurant where I need to interact with a waiter is when I am with my mother and she would be incredibly put out if I were disrespectful to them.”

“Then why are you treating people who work in your home like that?”

“John you misunderstand. The people who work here have been in my family’s employ for many years. They have known me for the majority of my life. Therefore, many are accustomed to my specific needs. You make it sound as though I threatened them in order to keep them out of my room. I believe my general personality was sufficient to keep others away.”

John was slightly struck by Sherlock’s statement. Not only because of his understanding that he was difficult to live with, but also because of his clear understanding of how others viewed him. Then John had a deep sense of sadness for Sherlock, partially born out of John’s own experience with loneliness.

“So no one ever comes in here?” John asked.

“I believe I just made that perfectly clear. Don’t be redundant, John it doesn’t suit you.”

“Did no one ever come in here when you were younger as well?”

“Yes. It has been many years. I believe since I was ten.”

“How much time do you spend in here? I mean, before you came to Bart’s.”

“Any time I wasn’t eating meals or doing something that required me to leave my room.”

“Wasn’t it lonely?”

“Why would it have been lonely?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t imagine spending all of that time by myself. Even I had Harry.”

“I was never lonely.”

John sat at the opposite end of the couch, and Sherlock tucked his feet underneath John’s thighs.

“I would have been lonely if I spent all of my time alone.”

“Being alone does not necessarily constitute loneliness. I am perfectly capable of functioning without company.”

“Do you prefer company or being alone?”

“I prefer you.”

John smiled at that, somehow believing that Sherlock’s preference of his company made him special. He stood and ignored Sherlock’s grumblings about cold feet. John side-stepped the stacks of books around Sherlock’s arm chair in favour of looking at the rows and rows of books on the bookshelf.

“Have you read all of these?” John asked; his finger tracing along the mismatched spines. He was only able to pick out a title or author here and there, but it was enough for John to realize that Sherlock’s rage of knowledge was far wider than his own.

“All the books on the top three shelves I have read. The bottom two I have yet to read. The ones that are in stacks around my chair are organized between read, in the process of reading, and have not read.”

“How do you keep track of everything?”

“My mind palace.”

“The memory thing?”

“Yes. How have you heard of it?” Sherlock sat up and peered at John. He had never met someone his own age who had heard of the mind palace before.

“Sally told me about it. It was something she used to do to remember her homework assignments and stuff. She put certain subjects in certain rooms in her house. Then she put every different assignment in a drawer or something in that room. It helped her keep everything together.”

“I’m surprised she is familiar with memory techniques. She had such a deplorable memory when it comes to details of a case.”

“Hey! Don’t be mean. Just because Sally isn’t a human encyclopaedia doesn’t mean that she is stupid.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

John walked over to the bed and ran his hand over the emerald bed cover and imagined growing up with the kind of luxuries that Sherlock was so familiar with. He and Harry had twin sized beds and their own bedrooms. Despite that separation, John remembered many nights that Harry knocked on his door. She always asked if she could stay in John’s room for one reason or another. John always let her. He found it hard to believe that a young Sherlock knocked on the door to his older brother’s room asking to sleep there because of a drunken father. Then again, John realised, he didn’t know much about Sherlock’s childhood beyond the obvious loathsome attitude towards his brother.

“You know you can actually sit on it. Or just get in bed,” Sherlock said. He was up off the sofa and closer than John expected.

“No, I know. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” Sherlock curled himself around John’s shorter frame, wrapping his arms across John’s wide torso in a loose embrace.

“Your estate. I can’t imagine growing up on these grounds. It’s gorgeous here.” John tried to keep the wistful longing out of his voice. He would have loved for him and Harry to have half of what Sherlock did. God, that would have made everything so much fucking easier. To have a driver go pick up their father. To have someone waiting to help get him in the door. To have someone help clean the puke up or just help to get him into bed.

Sherlock pressed his lips against the side of John’s throat in a touch that was less of a kiss and more of a point of contact.

“Think less. It’s noisy and annoying and I am quite feeling that nap mother offered. Besides, I like the idea of you in my bed.” Sherlock released John and grabbed the top lip of the bed coverings. He pulled them back to reveal matching sheets and more pillows than both of them could possibly use.

Kicking his shoes and socks off, Sherlock crawled into the farther side of the bed. John knew from experience that the lanky limbs wouldn’t stay that way. Sherlock asleep was prone to spreading himself out or grabbing John and pulling him close or simply covering him with arms and legs. The sentiment and invitation didn’t go amiss, however.

John toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks as well. After a thought, he pulled his jumper over his head. Sherlock asleep was akin to a human furnace. The jumper was surplus. John crawled into bed and laid out flat on the mattress. It was soft, pillow-top and entirely without poking springs. Sherlock pressed against his side and nuzzled against the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder.

“Stop thinking. It is distracting and I need to mentally prepare myself for dinner. Mycroft will be here by the time mother calls us down. He’ll want to know all about my progress and how I’m clearly inferior to him in my academic accomplishments. He’ll ask you far too many inconsequential questions. Don’t answer them. Nosy bastard. Can’t leave well enough alone.” Sherlock’s breath was coming out in hot puffs against John’s neck.

It was soothing. So much so that John found himself largely unperturbed by the warning. Rather, he was content to ignore the impending dinner altogether. For the time, John was satisfied with a mid-day rest in a proper bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is being difficult and will most likely be published in two parts. I don't know when I'll have part 2, but part 1 is written and is awaiting editing. So sorry this is taking forever.

**Author's Note:**

> A very many thank-yous to my betas.


End file.
